


Trust me, darling

by happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Banshee Powers, Canon Compliant, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: Lydia’s the steady one. She’s the normal one-- the baseline, any deviations caused by the supernatural divided out of her until she’s half a step away from human. She’s Lydia, resilient and smart. Bounces back from the supernatural with a flick of her hair and a smile. She has to be.So why is she seeing Allison in her dreams?
Relationships: Allison Argent/Lydia Martin
Kudos: 24
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	Trust me, darling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [why_didnt_i_get_any_soup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_didnt_i_get_any_soup/gifts).



> Teen Wolf ran with the Banshee mythos until it was only very loosely referenced, and this fic runs cheerfully along that route and beyond. This is set between seasons 3 and 4, so assumes spoilers up to S4! 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Some descriptions of grieving, panic attacks and accompanying imagery (restraint, choking, etc.). Casual discussion of canonical death. 
> 
> Written to Bad Liar by Imagine Dragons (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-QfPUz1es8), and the title is also grabbed from its lyrics!

**THE HARBINGERS OF DEATH**

_ These female spirits are known for producing piercing screams which can be only heard by other supernatural beings.  _

**_Banshees_ ** _ seemingly have a supernatural connection to the other  _ **_Banshees_ ** _. A  _ **_Banshee_ ** _ will use her “wail” to drown out all other sounds, allowing her to focus on the whispers from another  _ **_Banshee_ ** _ being transmitted.  _

_ It is said that if you find a silver comb (which  _ **_Banshees_ ** _ use to brush their long, flowing hair) lying on the ground, do not pick it up! Lest you meet a  _ **_Banshee_ ** _ trying to retrieve her prized possession face to face-- she may foretell your death. _

_ \-- Excerpt from The Argent Bestiary _

\------------------------------------

Murmurs are pressing against Lydia’s throat, unheard sounds building into a scream. Lydia raises her head, stares at the water running down the shower wall. Presses her fingers to it, so similar to the concrete of that forsaken access hallway. The scream is curling into the back of her mouth, ready to tear its way out into the world.

And still, it doesn’t come.

Lydia scrapes her fingers along the wall.

The wailing woman, they call banshees, but she can’t cry. There’s cotton in her throat, soft fluff that traps her grief and holds it there: forces her to breathe in shallowly. 

She wants to cry. She wants to mourn her friends lost to that fox. But this grief is twisted into her bones; a rot she can’t eliminate from her marrow, making her mind fuzzy and slow. 

Lydia leans against the wall, listens to the way the water sounds change.

Lydia’s the steady one. She’s the normal one-- the baseline, any deviations caused by the supernatural divided out of her until she’s half a step away from human. She’s Lydia, resilient and smart. Bounces back from the supernatural with a flick of her hair and a smile. She has to be.

The shower turns off, and Lydia steps out, wrapping herself in a bathrobe. She grabs a towel for her hair and walks to the kitchen for a glass of water for her scratchy throat.

A voice from behind catches her by surprise, makes her brain stutter for a half-second. “Are you okay, honey? You spent a long time in the shower.”

Lydia turns to her mother, smiling without showing her teeth. “I was just thinking.” 

Her mother steps closer, tugs the towel out her hands to help dry her hair. “That’s good. You... lost two important people in a short period of time, and that’s a lot to process at once. Maybe you should skip school tomorrow.”

“I want to go,” Lydia responds, too fast. Slower, she continues, “I just need to feel like things are...normal. That the world isn’t ending.”

( _ In the morning, Kira will tell her, “I wish I could say something to Scott. I wish I could say something to all of them. But I don’t know how much space or how much time I’m supposed to give them.” _

_ Lydia won’t be included in her statement, and she won’t wonder why. _

_ She’s Lydia, resilient and smart. As always. _ )

  
  
  


Lydia dreams of Allison.

Allison, on her first day of school all over again, smiling at them from the front of the class while her hands fiddle with the long tassels of her bag.

Lydia dreams of dropping a pen on the empty desk, so Allison never takes one from Scott McCall. Dreams of Allison, growing apart from them, joining the few people in the school who will appreciate her archery skill and who introduce her to the regional team. Dreams of Allison, sharp and accurate,  _ happy  _ and  _ triumphant  _ and  _ distant _ .

Dreams of Allison walking at graduation, an orbiting planet that barely acknowledges the McCall pack. Dreams of an Allison who gets to  _ live _ .

It’s a terribly lonely dream.

  
  
  


There aren’t many things that Lydia has left of Allison: pictures, a broken bow string and a blue scarf Allison left in her car, memories, memories, memories. It isn’t enough.

Lydia doesn’t have the face to ask Chris Argent for some of Allison’s things. Never mind that he had just boxed it up and compartmentalized, pretended that it doesn't hurt to look at her things. 

She ties the broken bow string between two thumbtacks buried in her corkboard at home, strums it until her fingers go numb. She throws Allison’s scarf over a chair, listens to the  _ twang _ of the bow string, and wishes she could pretend Allison was just a car ride away, about to text her about her missing scarf.

Scott skipped school today, Lydia registers absently. She wonders if he’s been able to cry.

She leaves the scarf over the chair in the corner of her room when she goes to bed, wonders if Allison would be happy to be remembered this way-- memories slipping through fingers--

( _ the sound of Lydia’s own scream drowning out the sound of her heart slowing to a stop) _

Lydia prints pictures of Allison off of her computer, listens to the  _ click-click-click _ of the printer and wonders if it counts as letting Allison live a little longer. She pins the pictures to her board, arranges them around the bow string.

Squints. Takes them down, arranges them again.

Moves the bow string. Slides pictures over. Pins.

Strums the bow string, watches it until the vibrations die out, dampened by friction over time. 

Squints. Takes the photos down, arranges them again.

( _ Resilient and smart. _ )

  
  
  


She dreams, and Allison is sitting in the chair in her bedroom, blue scarf wrapped around her neck. Allison is smiling at her, legs crossed, and Lydia’s throat feels raw. She’s sitting up in bed, a book open on the comforter in front of her, but she can’t seem to make her limbs move. 

“Hey, Lydia,” Allison says after an eternity of silence, fiddling with the end of her scarf.

Lydia swallows, gasps, “Alli--”

  
  
  


She wakes up.

Her phone is buzzing with her alarm, and she curls in her comforter for a moment, trying to grasp onto the last dregs of sleep. It’s futile: Lydia sits up with a huff and gets ready, dressing without much thought. Moving into the kitchen, she grabs a piece of toast off the counter and a kiss from her mother. 

“Did you have a good sleep?”

Lydia hums, brushing crumbs off of her fingers. “I must have. I just don’t… remember what I was dreaming about.” It’s fuzzy in the way most dreams are, fog sliding away to the start of the new day, and by lunch time Lydia doubts she’ll remember that she dreamed at all. Doubly so, if the McCall pack is courting another disaster around the corner.

“Well, let’s not question it too much if you slept well,” her mother says, brushing a hand over her head. “Hurry up and eat your toast-- we’ll both be late for school at this rate.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, pulls her school bag and heeled boots on, and walks to the car. It’s a nice day-- the kind of day that she wouldn’t mind a light jacket or a scarf, but wouldn’t need anything heavier. It’s the kind of day that Allison would always accessorize with a cropped jacket  _ and _ a scarf for good measure because part of her friend would always crave that little bit of extra something to fidget with. 

Allison’s closet had been full of the things: jackets mostly in neutrals, scarves a pop of color to match some of her bright sweaters. Dress up had been fun with Allison, who had a terrible understanding of her own complexion but an otherwise great sense of style. 

It was hard to know, in retrospect, how much of it had been Allison’s own taste and how much had been influenced by the…  _ hunter-chic _ that the rest of the Argents favored. Still, Allison had collected moto jackets and scarves by the armful, and it wasn’t a big surprise that she couldn’t always keep track of them all. But she would be so excited every time she found a new one that she liked, would wear it several times in a row before tucking it into her usual rotation.

It’s hard to think of all those clothes, boxed up and shut away. All that vibrancy, all that joy, hidden away from the world because it hurt too much to think of. Because the memories hurt too much, hidden barbs buried in their hearts because of love. 

It’s even harder to imagine those clothes donated away, given to people who never knew Allison and never would, who would look at her clothes and just see  _ fashion _ instead of the girl who wore them. 

Lydia doesn’t know what Chris Argent did before he left Beacon Hills. She doesn’t know that she wants to know. ( _ She’ll twist her fingers along the well-worn tassels of Allison’s scarf, wonder if Chris would ask for it back if he knew.) _

Her mother honks at her from the driver’s seat, and Lydia blinks, climbing into the car.

  
  


“Hey, are you okay?” Her dream opens with Allison’s voice.

“Oh great,” Lydia says from where she’s collapsed on her bed, her voice rising, “now even my own subconscious thinks I’m crazy.” She crosses her arms over her face. 

“Or, maybe,” Allison offers, tugging Lydia’s arms open, “I’m worried about you.” 

Lydia scoffs. “You’re  _ dead _ , Allison. That’s a hell of a lot worse than whatever’s happening with me.”

A hum of acknowledgment, and Allison settles onto the bed next to her. She’s playing with the ends of her purple dress ( _ paisley _ , Lydia notices absentmindedly _ ) _ , blue scarf left on the chair. “That’s kind of the point, too. I’m dead: who else is listening to you? Aiden?”

Lydia laughs, a sharp edge to it. “Is this what this is? My brain trying to make me come to terms with the fact that my best friend  _ and _ my boyfriend are dead?” She sits up, triumphant at the way Allison’s eyes widen. “Newsflash! I  _ know  _ already. I’m not delusional! I  _ know _ \--”

“Aiden’s dead?” 

Lydia stops, watches Allison’s face. Watches her brows come together, watches her face tense, watches her twist slightly to the side, like it’ll hide the glimmer of tears that are gathering on her eyelashes. “You didn’t know.”

“How would I  _ know _ , Lydia?” Allison says, raising her head to meet Lydia’s eyes. “I’m dead, remember?”

“Yeah,” Lydia echoes. “You’re dead.” She can’t take her eyes off of Allison’s-- this, this tiny relief her strung-out brain is giving her. She presses a hand to Allison’s cheek, wipes the corner of her eye. “So why are you sad?” The dead aren’t supposed to feel anything, are supposed to be beyond mortal pains. So why won’t Lydia’s brain let Allison  _ rest _ ?

“Lydia, oh my god,” Allison says and reaches out for her. The hold is gentle, dragging Lydia to rest against her chest. “I’m sad because you’re sad.”

“You’re sad because you’re part of me.” Lydia corrects, muffled by the hunter green canvas of Allison’s jacket. “Because some part of my  _ stupid _ , messed up brain thinks that this will make me feel better.” There’s a feeling creeping at the edges of Lydia’s mind, some vague and foreboding sense of something  _ familiar _ , something  _ wrong _ . 

“Your  _ brilliant _ , messed up mind,” Allison rebuts, hugging her tighter. “And is it?”

“Is it what?” 

“Making you feel better.” 

She pulls away from Allison, takes in her dark green jacket, her purple dress. Slow blinks into realization, the way murmurs through a piano string will yield clear sound with enough pressure. 

“You died in those clothes,” Lydia says. The walls of her bedroom are collapsing around them. Her own voice sounds like it’s coming from rooms away. “We bought that dress together.”

Allison looks at her steadily, even as the edges of the bed disintegrate around her. “I rescued my best friend in these clothes.” 

  
  


Lydia raps her knuckles against the Argent apartment, fingers curled in so the motion won’t chip her nail polish. There’s no answer-- the apartment has been empty for months, Chris Argent running to France and away from the dead. Lydia wonders if he has the right idea-- if  _ Jackson _ had the right idea, when he ran away to London months ago: scarred but alive. Changed, but not trapped in the hellmouth that Beacon Hills seems to be. 

The murmurs are writhing against her skin, an endless itch no one else can hear.

“Hey,” Lydia asks the gleaming numbers on the door, when the skin of her knuckles becomes red and painful, “what creatures can haunt the dreams of something like me?”

  
  
  
  


Allison is wearing a dark blue dress the next time Lydia dreams of her. It drops to mid thigh, Allison’s favorite cut, and a field of flowers is embroidered over the bodice of the dress, purple and yellow and red _ red _ red( _ bloomingacrossherchest--) _ . Her legs are covered in white fishnet that does little to hide the strong muscles of her legs; a khaki green sweater is around her waist, and Lydia doesn’t look at it too closely. Her hair is a mess, pulled into a loose bun that is falling out before Lydia’s eyes.

Allison is sitting in the chair, watching her, the slightest tension in her cheeks that means she wants to say something, and Lydia just--

Lydia just wants to sleep. Nevermind that she already is asleep, it would be easier  _ not _ to deal with this-- whatever this is that is wearing Allison’s face and creeping into her dreams. She has school in the morning; she has her grades to keep up; she has to re-write notes for Malia so the werecoyote won’t flunk math. This is the last thing that Lydia needs to be dealing with right now, some monster deciding that she’s the easy target because-- because  _ boo hoo _ , she’s the banshee who hears noises creeping out of the walls when people are going to die. Because she doesn’t know when the noises are real or just in her head; she doesn’t know when being intelligent and resilient started meaning that she had to handle things by herself. 

Because the others have paired up in their own little romances, and Lydia is-- by herself. 

Lydia crawls into her own bed, looks at Allison once more, and then pulls the covers over her head.

The apparition says nothing, and Lydia eventually wakes up.

  
  
  


Lydia presses Allison’s name on her phone, lets it ring and ring until Allison’s voicemail picks up, and hangs up before the beep. 

Calls again to hear her voice.

She moves her finger to Aiden’s name, stutters for a moment, and then deletes his contact from her phone. Skips over the names of the McCall pack. 

Returns to Allison’s. Calls it again.

  
  
  


( _ “Now, this _ **_is_ ** _ a surprise,” Peter Hale will say, later, eying her bruised knuckles, “And why would you be looking for  _ **_me_ ** _ , Lydia.” _ )

  
  
  


They’re lying in bed next to each other, ankles on the inside bumping against one another. Lydia exhales, staring at the ceiling, and turns to look at Allison. She’s wearing green today, a sweater splattered with black hearts over a black skirt. Allison isn’t looking at her.

“Hey, Lydia,” Allison hesitates, “we did save you, right?”

Lydia huffs, turns onto her side to fully face her. “It would be pretty dumb if you died and didn’t manage to save me.”

“Yeah.” Allison sounds like she’s going to cry. 

“You saved me,” Lydia says. “The Nogitsune’s gone, but we lost you and Aiden.” She stares at the edge of Allison’s chin. “Ethan and your dad and Isaac all ran off. Danny’s graduating early. Scott is tip-toeing around Kira, and I don’t even want to know what Stiles and Malia are up to.” 

The other girl stares at the ceiling for three beats, swallows and asks, “And you?”

“I’m the same as always,” Lydia announces. “Definitely going to be the valedictorian now that Stiles has been screwed by the Nogitsune  _ and  _ Malia.” 

Allison giggles, and something inside Lydia relaxes. “That’s not nice.”

Lydia scoffs to hide her smile, “I’m just being honest.” 

When Allison turns to face her, their faces are close enough that Lydia could count her eyelashes. “I’m glad you can be honest with me, even just a little bit.” Allison’s curls are getting crushed, and Lydia wants to reach out and tangle her hand in them.

“I miss you,” Lydia speaks into the air between them, words torn out of her.

Allison blinks, looks a little sad even as she smiles. “I miss you too.” 

Her eyes look like galaxies, Lydia thinks, the kind of distant cosmos that you only ever see as snapshots of the past. “I won’t stop missing you.”

“Oh, Lydia,” Allison says. “Can I-- can I hug you?” When Lydia doesn’t respond, she continues, “I really think a hug would help. Or, maybe it wouldn’t help you but it would help  _ me _ ,” she stutters, “but I guess we shouldn’t do anything if it doesn’t help you, uh.”

Lydia shoves her way into the taller girl’s arms, burying her wet face into Allison’s neck. “Shut  _ up _ , Allison,” she sniffles, “if I had known that getting you to date werewolves would infect you with their awkward, I never would have let you.”

“Hey,” Allison protests, her voice warm, “Scott and Isaac were both nice guys. Any awkwardness you are experiencing isn’t their fault.”

“You should have made better life decisions,” Lydia complains, not really talking about Allison dating anymore.

The taller girl knows it, from the way Lydia can see her lips quirk up. “I could only do what felt right. And I don’t regret it.”

Lydia huffs, winding her arms around Allison’s thin waist. “You don’t regret enough things. Like that tie dye scarf-- it clashed with everything.”

“I liked that scarf,” Allison says, easy. “And besides, it always gave you something to complain about.” She nestles her chin atop Lydia’s head, lays her arms atop Lydia’s. 

“Have you met our friends? That’s not hard.”

Allison hums in reluctant agreement, and Lydia can feel the vibration on her scalp. “Is there something else you want to talk about?”

It’s hard to say, pressed up against Allison like this. Like she’ll still have her best friend when she wakes up. “I asked Peter about seeing you in my dreams.”

There’s a pause, and Lydia watches Allison swallow. “I hope you brought someone with you.”

“He said that you were either a night hag, stealing Allison’s form to drain me dry,” Lydia whispers, “or that it’s you, and that you became tied to the land, somehow, when you revived the Nemeton. Tied down to the point that a strong enough banshee can draw you into dreams, given a connection exists.”

“Lydia,” Allison says, slow and suspicious, “what did Peter want in exchange for that information?”

She doesn’t want to point out that Allison didn’t confirm either way, but her mind gets stuck on it: something to contemplate, in the daytime. For now, she answers, “Support for Malia. He’s apparently not all that terrible on the scale of absentee fathers.”

  
  
  


(Lydia awakens, and the conversation she had with Allison slips from her mind like sand between her fingers.)

What she remembers while lying in bed is instead Peter, drawl as slow as molasses, saying, “Banshees are curious creatures-- most of the supernatural community doesn’t know  _ how _ to treat them. Outcasts, their own little clique. Each with their pretty little silver combs. A banshee’s silver comb gives them a little extra  _ oomph _ , if you will, to see the way death comes.”

  
  
  
  


“Hey, Lydia,” Stiles says, dropping into the seat in front of her. “Have you heard? Derek’s missing. His apartment was trashed-- we’re still trying to figure out what happened.”

Part of Lydia wishes his timing was a little less poor, when Coach Finstock is screaming into his phone the way that means he’ll be bemoaning the health care system shortly. Part of her is thankful for the distraction, a scheduled task that she can input and let her body run. 

Stiles is still talking, but Lydia doesn’t hear much of it, except for one thing: Chris Argent is returning to Beacon Hills. She digs her nails into her palm, thinks about scarf fringe, leather jackets, bows and arrows. Thinks about a girl pierced through with a blade, thinks about her silver arrowhead banishing an enemy they couldn’t defeat.

Thinks about silver.

  
  
  


Allison is in a beige dress tonight, hair tucked into a matching knit beret. She’s smiling up at Lydia; it’s terrible, how relieved that makes Lydia feel. It might not be Allison ( _ it doesn’t matter if it isn’t her, Lydia will fall a thousand times to spend more time with her spectre _ ). There’s something off-center in Lydia’s chest, her heart packed a little too close to her lungs. Her breath is shaky when she finally manages to exhale.

She pulls Allison onto the bed, triumphs in the surprised laugh that makes the corners of Allison’s eyes curl up. The other girl stays smiling, leans back on Lydia’s bed beside her like she  _ belongs  _ there. The silence stretches between them, patient and gummy. 

“Can I kiss you?” Lydia blurts, staring up at her. 

Allison’s elbow gives out from under her, and she somehow turns a flail into a graceful slide down against Lydia’s side. 

“I--” Allison says, licks her lips once. “Do you still think I might be a night hag?” Her breath is cold in the space between them. 

“You might be, I don’t know right now.” Lydia says. “Can I kiss you?” It would be easy, pressing forward a few inches to where Allison’s face is next to hers. 

The dark haired girl laughs, turning onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t really want you to kiss me if you don’t think I’m me.”

Lydia slings an arm over the other’s waist, pulls her in close so she can rest her head on Allison’s shoulder. “If  _ I  _ don’t care, what does it matter?”

“You need so much therapy,” Allison says, gently. “You don’t care if you’re kissing your best friend or a soul-sucking creature?” Her shoulder relaxes under Lydia’s cheek. “That’s just asking for trouble, with Beacon Hill’s track record. I’d rather we never kissed, if you didn’t have to take that risk.”

Lydia presses forward, steals a kiss to Allison’s cheek. “And if I had a way to tell it was you?”

“Then of course we would kiss,” Allison says, faux pompously, and then more quietly, “if you still wanted to.”

“Of course I would still want to,” Lydia responds, “I asked, didn’t I?”

  
  
  


“Allison’s silver arrowheads,” Lydia says into the phone, as steadily as she can, “can I have them?”

The other end of the line is quiet. “What do you need them for?”

“I want to make a comb,” Lydia says. “A banshee’s silver comb.”

“You’re looking for a power boost.”

“It might be. Or it might be--- a way to bring more focus.” Lydia fumbles. “A way for me to sort through the sounds I hear.”

Chris Argent says nothing, for a long time. 

Then he speaks, slow and low, about where he’s locked them away and how to use the silversmithing equipment. His voice never cracks, steady like he’s giving a mission report, and Lydia wonders what it’s costing him, to give them to her.

_ (Later, in place of the silver arrowheads she’s melted together into a comb, she leaves behind Allison’s blue scarf and a picture they had taken together at school-- Allison smiling, dimples prominent, dazzling.) _

  
  
  
  


Lydia wears the comb in her hair to sleep, wishes on it like a star shining in the night.

  
  
  


The lights in her room are off when Lydia opens her eyes. She climbs out of her bed to the window, pulls the blinds open to let the moonlight in. She twists on her heel, meeting the eyes of the girl who’s appeared on her bed.

Allison is smiling at her, dark curls pulled loosely to one side of her neck. Her dress is silver, strapless and coming down in carefully tailored ruffles. There’s a thick braided necklace twisting just over her collarbones. Her lips are tinted pink. 

Her eyes are dark where they’re watching Lydia, steady. 

Lydia touches the comb in her hair, listens and listens and doesn’t feel the murmurs twisting against her skin. 

Allison remains in front of her, unchanged.

“ _ Prom _ , really?” Lydia says, testing. “Not really the best night of  _ either _ of our lives.”

“It was definitely worse for you,” Allison concedes. “But it was where all of this,” she gestures to Lydia, “started for you, right? The activation of your banshee-hood? Seems appropriate to celebrate the occasion.”

“I ran around naked in the woods for days.” Lydia deadpans. “I almost developed hypothermia. People thought I was crazy because I was suddenly hearing noises.”

“But you kept coming to school, right? You were resilient enough that it didn’t matter if people were gossiping. You were going to run circles around us and graduate at the top of the class no matter what.” 

She sighs, reaches out to curl her fingers around Allison’s cheeks. “You always were like this, so  _ supportive _ .” The words are undeniably fond, the way it comes out of her throat, and Lydia doesn’t try to hide it. “Just the same.”

“Hard to change when you’re dead,” Allison teases, but it’s just a little bittersweet. 

Lydia drags her fingers down to the corners of Allison’s mouth. “I believe it’s you, you know?”

“I know,” Allison says, and waits.

Lydia drags Allison into a kiss, feels her smile against her lips.

  
  
  


Lydia wakes up, presses her fingers to her lips, remembers, remembers, remembers. 

She opens her phone, scrolls through her contacts until she finds the name she’s looking for. Presses down, waits for the other side to pick up, says, “So tell me what’s going on with Derek.”

_ (She’s Lydia, resilient and smart. As always. _ )

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and happy Femslash Ex 2020!!!


End file.
